The final film in Ingmar Bergman’s “Trilogy of Faith”, The Silence portrays a world devoid of God, of affection, and of language. Bergman utters true silence, after two films of distant murmurings. If Through a Glass Darkly was a search for God and Winter Light a call for God, then The Silence is the nothingness with which God – present or absent – replies. A dimly lit carriage rattles along, lullabying two women to sleep; a young boy seems restless. The boy asks what a sign on the side of the carriage says, one of the women replies “I don’t know.” A greater weight is place upon this after we find out that Ester – the women he asked, his aunt – is a translator, yet is unable to interpret the sign. Directly before this opening scene, the credits
Although Alexandra begins working the land to fulfill her father’s dying wish, no one in her early life ever realizes that perhaps she had other dreams and other wishes. “You feel that, properly, Alexandra’s house is the big out-of-doors, and that it is in the soil that she expresses herself best,” an...
The girl's mother is associated with comfort and nurturing, embodied in a "honeyed edge of light." As she puts her daughter to bed, she doesn't shut the door, she "close[s] the door to." There are no harsh sounds, compared to the "buzz-saw whine" of the father, as the mother is portrayed in a gentle, positive figure in whom the girl finds solace. However, this "honeyed edge of li...
First of all, diegetic sounds and ambient sound effects are integral in creating tension and apprehension in the film, as “ …sound plays a critical role in determining how audiences react to images.” (p.234) At the background of the opening shot the audience hears the distant roll of thunder; gradually its sound increases and reaches its maximum, causing fear of impending jeopardy. As the tension escalates, the volume of the sound rises, we hear the roaring of dancers’ drums, and its sound is intentionally exaggerated, the tempo of music speeds up as well as the dance of the indigenous performers of the ritual sacrifice to gods. The alteration of volume and tempo of the sound heightens suspense and makes the audience anticipate with anxiety the forthcoming shots.
During the opening six minutes of Nicholas Roeg’s film Don’t Look Now, the viewer experiences a dynamic mixture of film techniques that form the first part of the narrative. Using metaphor and imagery, Roeg constructs a vivid and unique portrayal of his parallel storyline. The opening six minutes help set up a distinct stylistic premise. In contrast to a novel or play, the sequence in Don’t Look Now is only accessible through cinema because it allows the viewer to interact with the medium and follow along with the different camera angles. The cinematography and music also guide the viewer along, and help project the characters’ emotions onto the audience because they change frequently. The film techniques and choppy editing style used in Don’t Look Now convey a sense of control of the director over the audience and put us entirely at his mercy, because we have to experience time and space as he wants us to as opposed to in an entirely serial manner.
Whether Andrei Rublev (Andrei Tarkovsky 1966/1969) ‘accurately’ or precisely reveals the reality of life in the 15th century has nothing to do with any actual audiences’ reactions to the film as experience. Instead, what we can feel is the becoming of the experienced world into distraction from something else. As a spotlight, for its intensity, might remind us what is outside its beam, the sprawling and unlimited earthly world of the film points to something outside the widescreen frame. The film makes itself a diversion from something that had equally not existed before the image began moving – or had it existed? The movie is enough to send audiences fleeing to god. And is, in this manner, a proof of god much like Pavel Florensky’s by iconography: “There exists the icon of the Holy Trinity by St. Andrei Rublev; therefor...
In brief, the audience can see how this 1931 sound film could be shaped by sound in a number of ways. Considering that sound at this time was a new phenomenon it is understood why mostly diegetic sound was used over nondiegetic sound. This director also showed the audience how the story could be affected by sound with examples like the clock becoming a character and storyline of its own and also the murderer being identified with his whistling. With the lack of sound and the collage of images during specific times, the director was able to create a mood without music or sound. Apparently this was a technique that was learned throughout his many years of silent films. These details were what brought the story together and would not have been done so precisely without the technique of sound.
Historically, women have been treated as second class citizens. The Napoleonic Code stated that women were controlled by their husbands and cannot freely do their own will without the authority of their husband. This paper shows how this is evident in the "Story of an Hour" by Kate Chopin and " A Rose for Emily" by William Faulkner. In both stories, the use of literary elements such as foreshadowing, symbolism, and significant meaning of the titles are essential in bringing the reader to an unexpected and ironic conclusion.
The next testimonies are from the mother of the abducted wife who pleads for the authorities to find her missing daughter. Along the way the wife’s mother notes that her daughter is beautiful to be noticed, “Her complexion is a little on the dark side, and she has a mole by the outside corner of her left eye, but her face is a tiny, perfect oval (306). Also, that the daughter, Masago, is very bold for a woman her
The film begins with a title card sequence upon a static backdrop of shrubbery, mountains and distant clouds; a lingering sight that doesn’t truthfully establish forthcoming events in Vienna’s saloon. Her saloon may be quiet, but it is always occupied, and whilst the opening sequence, in which we are introduced to Johnny Guitar, is filled with a bravado of horns and orchestral accompaniment, the saloon itself is inversely populated by the sound of wind, tumbleweed, and stark silences - something perhaps more associated with the western expanse in which the story takes place. Yet for this dichotomy in sound, the initial visuals after the credit sequence foreshadow the destruction of locale, and the audience takes the place ...
This same approach can be seen with the music, which draws on our uneasiness with dead noise throughout the movie. The film creates its effects essentially out of visuals and music and lack thereof. This film is not for everyone, but if you're the type who spends casual time pondering humankind's destiny, this is a must see. In the end, this film, and its music, is inspiring, meditative, and an almost a spiritual experience. After watching it nearly ten years later, it has still not dated; and I hope it never does.
It is no secret that with the nickname “The Master of Suspense” that the trademark technique of Alfred Hitchcock’s films would be his ability to elicit excruciating emotions of tension out of his audiences. It is by far his most prominent and most effective stylistic choice and is displayed in all three films that I have selected for this essay. Hitchcock best described his fascination...
“The Little Heidelberg” is the story of a small dance hall. The customers of The Little Heidelberg are typically older men and women, many of whom are foreigners who cannot speak English. One of these is El Capitán, a retired Finnish sea captain, who has been dancing with niña Eloísa, a lovely Russian woman, weekly for forty years. They have never spoken to each other because of language barriers. One day some Scandinavian tourists come to the Heidelberg. El Capitán hears them speaking his language and asks them to translate to Eloísa for him. In this scene it is the first time that anyone has ever heard him speak. Eloísa learns that El Capitán wants to marry her, and she says yes. The couple begin a celebratory dance, and as they start twirling Eloísa begins to turn “to lace, to froth, to mist” until she is first a shadow and then completely disappears (Allende, 179). In the magic of the scene, she twirls out of existence. Her disappearance seems to reflect the dreamscape nature of the scene.
Despite the crowded composition, the central figure demands all of the viewers attention The young woman is being escorted by an older gentleman, whose face we cannot see, but whose white hair gives away his age. Her face is turned to the left and back, casting a shadow as if she is looking at something. What catches her gaze, we don’t know, nor does it really matter. Her side glace and slight smile invites the viewer to take in the spectacle.
In the story, the narrator is forced to tell her story through a secret correspondence with the reader since her husband forbids her to write and would “meet [her] with heavy opposition” should he find her doing so (390). The woman’s secret correspondence with the reader is yet another example of the limited viewpoint, for no one else is ever around to comment or give their thoughts on what is occurring. The limited perspective the reader sees through her narration plays an essential role in helping the reader understand the theme by showing the woman’s place in the world. At ...
The opening title sequence is arguably one of the most interesting sequences of the entire film; it begins with a wide high angle shot looking down over San Francisco's Union Square. The square is busy from nearby office workers and Christmas shoppers eating their lunches and enjoying entertainment from local street performers.